Studio Synchrony
On a Tuesday night, the studio was bathed in neon blue light. Scott was hunched over the mixing console, his eyes fixed on the frequency waves of Sasha's voice.
— More sustain on the final note, Sasha
— Scott said through the comms, his voice cold and technical.
— If you waver here, the song's emotion gets lost in the digital processing.
Sasha took a deep breath.
— I know, Scott. But if I force it too much, it's going to sound artificial. Lani needs to sound human, remember? That's why you hired me.
Scott paused. He looked at her through the glass, his face expressionless, but his fingers drummed on the desk
— a rare sign that he was processing a critique.
— Play the backing track again
— he ordered.
When the music started, his coldness seemed to melt away. Scott wasn't just operating the console; he closed his eyes and moved his head to the rhythm, almost as if in a trance. In that moment, the narcissism vanished. He and Sasha became just two musicians in search of perfection.
— Better
— he whispered when she finished.
— Almost... flawless.
Fernanda's Interruption
Sasha was in the center of the capture stage, adjusting the sensors, when the door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Fernanda walked in. She brought no coffee, no smiles. Her face was a mask of glacial efficiency, and her green eyes seemed to scan the room for flaws.
— Scott. Stop the sequencer
— Fernanda said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it had a cutting authority that filled the room.
Scott didn't turn around.
— We're in the middle of a mix, Fernanda. Get out.
Fernanda walked up to the soundboard, ignoring the order. She snapped Scott's laptop shut with a sharp motion, cutting off the audio.
— You made contractual decisions regarding Sasha's security logistics without going through my vetting process
— she stated, her words coming out precise and icy.
— I am not just your secretary, Scott. I am the executive who prevents your arrogance from destroying this agency. You hired her as if she were a new toy, hiding the meeting from me to avoid "bureaucracy."
Scott finally turned, his expression hardened.
— I know Sasha's needs better than anyone in this room.
— You know the music
— Fernanda shot back, maintaining a flat tone devoid of any warm emotion.
— I know the risks. Your lack of professionalism in excluding me from Sasha's hiring will not be tolerated again. If you want to play music producer, do it on your own time. Here, you answer to the protocol I established.
She turned to Sasha. Fernanda's gaze was analytical, as if she were evaluating the wear and tear on a piece of machinery.
— Sasha. The fact that we are childhood friends doesn't give Scott the right to act like an amateur. From today on, any communication that doesn't involve vocal technique must go exclusively through me. Do not trust his management; Scott forgets that people have basic needs when he is obsessed with a sound frequency.
The Silent Conflict
— I understand, Fernanda
— Sasha replied, trying to maintain her firmness.
— Great. Because the next time he tries to isolate you from an executive meeting, I will draft a termination clause for breach of governance myself
— Fernanda looked at Scott one last time.
— Get back to work. And don't forget: you are the owner, but I am the structure. Without me, you are just a rich man listening to music alone in the dark.
Fernanda left the room without looking back, the door closing with a dull thud.
Scott remained silent for a long time, his fingers hovering over the console. He didn't look angry; he looked resigned.
— She's right about one thing
— Scott whispered, turning the monitors back on.
— Without her, this place would have no order. But she doesn't understand that order doesn't create art.
Upon reaching the lobby, the agency's security guard promptly stepped forward, holding the key to a black executive sedan.
— Miss Sasha, the driver is waiting to take you to your residence.
Sasha stopped, looking at the gleaming car and then at her own reflection in the glass facade. The idea of being driven in a bubble of luxury, under Fernanda's indirect surveillance, felt like an extension of that technical claustrophobia.
— No need, thank you
— she said, already sliding her finger across her phone screen.
— I'll take an Uber.
The guard hesitated, confused. For someone in her position, the anonymity of a ride-share car was a strange concept. But for Sasha, it was the only way to regain control over her own steps. Minutes later, a common silver car pulled up. She got in, feeling the familiar scent of car air freshener and the muffled sound of a local radio station. There, she wasn't the voice of Lani; she was just Sasha.
Sasha stepped out of the Uber and felt immediate relief as she set foot on the sidewalk of Grão de Ouro. As she entered, the cozy atmosphere embraced her. She didn't need badges, sensors, or protocols here. The sound of the coffee grinder was the only frequency she wanted to hear.
Isaac was behind the counter, concentrated on the milk steamer.
— Judging by your step, it was a rough day over there today, wasn't it?
— Isaac asked, with a half-smile that disarmed her every defense.
Sasha let out a long sigh, leaning her elbows on the worn counter.
— How do you know?
— You walk in with your shoulders higher when she's around. And with eyes tired from looking at Scott's blue light for too long
— he replied, sliding a chamomile tea with honey toward her.
— Here, it's warm light, Sasha. Breathe.
Sasha took the first sip, feeling the warmth of the tea and the comfort of Isaac's gaze. She looked around, struck by the absolute silence of the place.
— Where's David? I thought he'd be making jokes about your new coffee blends by now.
Isaac let out a tired laugh and rubbed his face.
— David is off today. And Valentina... well, she felt sick at the last minute and had to go home. I had to hold down the fort alone today.
Taking advantage of the calm evening flow, Isaac washed his hands and came out from behind the counter. He sat on the high stool next to her, closing the distance. He wasn't an executive or a producer; he was the man who knew Sasha's voice when she was hoarse from laughing too hard, not just when it was calibrated for perfection.
He reached for her face, brushing away a strand of hair that insisted on falling over her eyes.
— You turned down the agency car again, didn't you?
— he whispered, with a glint of pride in his eyes.
— I just don't think it's necessary, Isaac. I needed to come here... to get to you by my own means.
Isaac smiled and pulled her into a tight hug, hiding his face in her neck. In that moment, the coffee shop's silence was deeper than any studio soundproofing. Sasha closed her eyes, feeling Isaac's calloused hands in contrast to the smoothness the agency demanded of her.
— Here, you are only mine
— Isaac whispered against her skin.
— Here, you are only Sasha. And Sasha is all I need.
Sasha's face heated up instantly, a wave of warmth starting at her neck and rising to the tips of her ears, tinting her skin a bright red that even the soft light of the coffee shop couldn't hide.
She felt her heart skip a beat, hammering against her chest so hard she feared Isaac might hear it. For a moment, his words seemed to freeze time; Scott's high-tech studio, the audience goals, and the pressure of Phantom Frequency evaporated, leaving only the comforting weight of Isaac's presence.
Sasha looked away, suddenly feeling shy under the intensity of that declaration. She bit her lower lip, trying to suppress an involuntary smile that insisted on appearing.
— Isaac...
— she murmured, her voice nearly vanishing, cracking through the professional posture she had been trying to maintain.
She hid her face in his shoulder for a few seconds, breathing in the familiar scent of coffee and safety. When she finally pulled back a bit to face him, her eyes shone with a mix of vulnerability and deep affection, though her cheeks were still burning.
— Sometimes you say things that...
— she began, laughing softly out of pure nervousness while fiddling with the hem of her blouse.
— You know exactly how to leave me speechless, don't you? But I also just need to be Sasha for a while. With you.
They stayed there, tangled in each other amidst the aroma of beans and the peace of the night, reclaiming the humanity that the studio tried, note by note, to turn into code.
The Way Back
Isaac washed the last cups quickly while Sasha watched him. When he finally turned off the lights and turned the key in the door, the street was deserted and cold. He wrapped his arm around Sasha's shoulders, pulling her close.
They walked the few blocks to her building in a comfortable silence, the kind of silence that only those who truly love each other can sustain. When they reached the entrance, Isaac stopped and planted a long kiss on her forehead, beginning to step away.
— Sleep well, my love. See you tomorrow?
He was already taking his first step toward the sidewalk when he felt a firm tug. Sasha had grabbed the fabric of his jacket, her fingers clutching the cloth with a silent urgency. Isaac stopped and turned, finding her eyes glowing under the streetlight.
— Isaac...
— she began, her voice a bit lower, laden with a desire not to let him go.
— Won't... won't you come in?
The fatigue on Isaac's face seemed to evaporate, replaced by a deep tenderness. He looked at her hand clutching his clothes and then at the shy smile she was trying to hide. That night, the world outside
— with Scott, Fernanda, and the pressures of fame
— seemed not to exist anymore.
As they entered the apartment, the outside world stayed on the other side of the door. Isaac pulled her into a kiss that started slow, heavy with longing, and soon became urgent. There was no cold perfection like the agency demanded of Sasha; there was only warm skin, Isaac's calloused hands finding her softness, and a total surrender.
They made love under the dim light coming from the window, a meeting of bodies that felt like a silent promise that no matter how hard the next day was, they belonged to each other. They fell asleep tangled together, the sound of each other's breathing serving as the only necessary soundtrack.
The sun did not ask permission.
It pierced through the crack in the curtain and hit Isaac square in the face. He blinked, feeling the comforting weight of Sasha's body on his. Both were bare under the messy sheet, their skin still holding the warmth of the previous night.
Isaac felt around the floor for his phone to check the time. When the screen lit up, his eyes nearly popped out.
— Sasha!
— he whispered loudly, shaking her lightly.
— Sasha, wake up!
— Mmm... just five more minutes, Isaac...
— she murmured, nesting closer to him.
— Love, it's 08:45! Valentina is going to kill me, and you have rehearsal at 09:00!
The effect was immediate. Sasha jumped, sitting up in bed with wide eyes, the sheet falling and revealing a nudity that, in any other moment, would be cause for more affection. But now, panic was the master.
— My God! Scott is going to flay me alive if I'm late again!
— Sasha scrambled out of bed, running toward the bathroom while trying to tie up her hair.
Isaac, still processing the shock, jumped out of bed and started scavenging for his clothes scattered across the rug.
— And David is off! Valentina is going to have a breakdown if the shop opens late and she's still feeling sick!
A chaotic ballet followed: Isaac trying to button his shirt while looking for a lost sock; Sasha coming out of the shower in record time, throwing on whatever clothes she could find and trying to pull on her shoes.
— Where's my phone? Isaac, have you seen my phone?
— she shouted from the hallway.
— It's on the kitchen table!
— Isaac shouted back, finishing putting on his sneakers without even tying the laces properly.
They met at the door, both disheveled and breathless, but with a glow in their eyes that no rush could extinguish. Isaac quickly grabbed her by the waist and stole a short, loud kiss.
— Go. We'll talk once the chaos dies down!
— Good luck with Valentina!
— Sasha replied, already running toward the elevator.
The night of peace had ended, and the day of relentless responsibilities was just beginning.
The contrast between the light morning and the cold reality of the agency didn't take long to appear. Sasha felt her body relaxed, but her heart raced as soon as she crossed the glass doors of Phantom.
At the Agency: The Imperfect Detail
Sasha tried to slip discreetly past the reception, but Scott was standing in the center of the hall, staring at his wristwatch with an expression of glacial boredom. Seeing Sasha, he didn't yell, which was even more terrifying.
— Eighteen minutes late, Sasha
— he said, his voice low and cutting.
— I hope your performance today makes up for the time I wasted looking at this door.
Sasha lowered her head, trying to look away.
— I'm sorry, Scott. I lost track of time.
Scott took a step forward, invading her personal space. He analyzed her from head to toe with a clinical gaze, until his eyes stopped at the curve of her neck. A crease appeared on his forehead and, for a brief second, Scott's mask of superiority wavered, giving way to visible discomfort.
He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small envelope of beige bandages. Without saying a word, he held it out to her.
— What is this?
— Sasha asked, confused, taking the bandage.
Scott cleared his throat, looking away toward a random marble column, a slight flush rising over the collar of his impeccable shirt.
— Put that on the left side of your neck. Now.
— But I didn't cut myself...
— It's a "hickey," Sasha
— he interrupted, the word coming out with a mix of disgust and a shame he tried to hide with arrogance. — It's a cheap imperfection the camera doesn't forgive. Cover it before Fernanda sees it and decides you aren't professional enough for the job.
Sasha felt her face burn instantly. Isaac's mark of love was, to Scott, merely a "technical flaw" that needed to be hidden.
Meanwhile, a few blocks away, Isaac was running as if his life depended on it. His shirt was poorly buttoned and his hair was a mess from the wind.
— Dammit, Valentina is going to hang me by my apron...
— he grumbled, rounding the corner at high speed.
Midway, while trying to dodge a group of pedestrians, he collided violently with a young woman coming from the opposite direction. The impact caused her to drop her bag, and Isaac nearly lost his balance.
— Whoops! My deepest apologies, I'm really late!
— Isaac said quickly, without stopping to look at her face. He just steadied himself and continued his run, shouting over his shoulder:
— I'm so sorry!
The woman stood frozen on the sidewalk. She didn't bend down to pick up her bag immediately. Her eyes were wide, fixed on Isaac's back as he pulled away. The air seemed to have fled from her lungs.
She watched as he crossed the street and hurried into the Grão de Ouro Coffee Shop, disappearing behind the glass door.
— Isaac?
— she whispered, her voice so low it was lost in the city noise.
There was a mix of pain and shock on her face. His name sounded like an old song she hadn't heard in years. She stood there, still, staring at the coffee shop facade, while the world continued to spin around her.